


The End (of the Beginning), or A Not-So-Nice or Accurate Guide to Sex on a Stick, By Anthony J. Crowley, Demon.

by fantasticallyobscure



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Footnotes, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Pining, borderline crack at times, implied virgin Aziraphale, mentions of having sex and not enjoying it, runaway food metaphors, sexually experienced but confused and unsatisfied Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 12:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21197753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantasticallyobscure/pseuds/fantasticallyobscure
Summary: Crowley has spent 6000 years trying to figure out what’s so great about sex while being pursued by bony humans and pining fruitlessly for a not-so-bony angel. After the world doesn’t end, the two of them get around to defining Crowley’s status as ‘sex on a stick.’





	The End (of the Beginning), or A Not-So-Nice or Accurate Guide to Sex on a Stick, By Anthony J. Crowley, Demon.

Of all the things to ever baffle the legions of the damned, humanity’s preoccupation with sex was at the top of the list. Sure, there were the incubi and succubi, and every demon worth their soot knew the value of the more salacious kind of tempting. But it was a job; generally considered to be more interesting than being on dripping-bucket duty, less entertaining than a bit of torture. Useful. No one ever claimed the humans weren’t bloody weird anyway.

For all that Crowley prided himself on having his finger on the pulse of humanity, it was something he was never terribly sure about either. Adam and Eve had made a pretty good go of enjoying themselves with it, and that was before the whole getting-kicked-out-over-an-apple business. What exactly was sinful about it was as much of a mystery to him as the problem with knowing good from evil. Plenty of people said that it was the enjoying it bit that was bad (which, ok that sounded like Upstairs) but nobody had said anything when the first couple were bumping uglies in full view of a few guardian angels and a certain snake that ended up quite put off his afternoon nap[1]. 

Really, Crowley wanted to ask someone what all the fuss was about, but there weren’t many people to ask.[2] The first time he tried talking to Aziraphale about it, somewhere between the Almighty’s Mighty Wet Tantrum and them nailing that poor bugger from Galilee to a big wooden cross, he’d stumbled over his words so badly the angel thought he was choking and tried to give him the Heimlich manoeuvre. [3]

***

The first time he’d ever discussed sex with Aziraphale somewhat successfully was at that restaurant in Rome while watching the angel eat oysters. 

“So, enjoying all the orgies, are we?”

“I have no idea what you mean.” The look the angel flashed him asserted that he knew exactly what he meant, but it was impolite to raise the subject over dinner.

“Oh, come on. I’m a demon, I hear things. Can’t be hanging around the top seats in Rome without a good orgy cropping up! Someone got a commendation for that; wasn’t me this time unfortunately-”

“It’s not as vulgar as you’re making it out to be! Well, not always.” 

A delicate flush was making its way up the angel’s neck. Crowley nearly choked on his wine.

“Wait- so you’ve actually gone to an orgy? You, an angel?”

“Well I didn’t realise! I was invited to this party and Gaius puts on such a magnificent spread, so I thought, well, when in Rome. But then, it all got a bit…amorous.”

“Oh angel! Did you…partake?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Not even a little nibble?” He couldn’t help pushing. That flush had spread to the cheeks and Aziraphale was becoming what Crowley privately referred to as ‘gave-the-sword-away’ flustered.

“Stop it Crowley! Not everyone does- things- at these things.”

“Little bit of voyeurism then? Very holy of you.”

“It’s not- it’s not what you’re implying. And anyway, as long as everyone is enjoying themselves and it’s all above board…I don’t see the harm in making love instead of fighting endless wars.”

“Love? I think you’re thinking of another ‘L’ word, angel.”

“Love comes in many forms. And what would you know about it anyway, you’re a demon.”

“Yeah. Right. Only the one ‘L’ word for me.” Those bloody oysters had gone to his throat. He made sure to put an appropriate sneer in his voice. “I’m getting more wine.”

***

After that, Crowley figured he’d find his own answers if there were any. Not everyone could be an orgy-watching angel after all, and having hang-ups about one of the top sins was bad for the image. It just seemed like so much bloody effort though; there had to be some reward.

The first experiment involved a sweet blonde barbarian girl, soft and plump and pink-cheeked, who he hadn’t quite meant to stare at for quite so long. She brought him a drink and later brought him to a soft bed in a dark corner. That was when he realised he had absolutely no clue what he was doing. It was awkward. Then it was wet and a bit sticky. Then it was…quite nice actually, before she threw her head back and a flush washed up her pale throat and suddenly Crowley could taste oysters.

One experiment didn’t mean failure, however. Fair-haired and curvy was out, but there were plenty more fish in the sea. If he was interested. Which turned out to be less than he’d first imagined. However, he soon realised that Aloof and Disinterested was apparently a seduction technique, and even if he never did anything about it, he was getting the job done just by slinking around and lazily inspiring Lust.[4]

That was when another Problem made itself known. It only ever seemed to be the humans confident in their own sexual attractiveness that ever actually approached him. And for some thrice-be-damned reason those people all too closely mirrored Crowley himself in the looks department. Tall and lean, smirking eyes and lips. It only got fucking worse in the twentieth century. What had been the occasional offer became a constant barrage of sex-starved beanpoles throwing themselves at him. Sometimes he let them. Crowley never had to actually try to find a sexual partner, he just took to lounging alluringly somewhere until someone came along and offered to shag him senseless. Which, for the record, only ever happened the once, and that’s because the stupid prick tried to change position too close to the edge of the bed and the next Crowley knew he was waking up on the floor with a concussion from whacking his head off a pointy bedside table.

So frankly, in Crowley’s opinion, sex is usually fucking awful. Especially with people resembling himself. Bones everywhere, bits digging in. He didn’t feel all of his 6000 years very often but when there’s some sort of pincushion on top of you making noises resembling an amorous hedgehog, you do think that maybe sitting at home (or a bookshop) with a good book (having someone read you a good book anyway) and a glass (bottle) of wine would be more fun.

Crowley he would say he’s like a crunchy biscuit – like say, a skinny biscotti. A snappy biscuit. But see, snappy little biscuits need a bit of something to soften them up. You don’t just go around rubbing hard little biscuits together, no. You dip them in tea or coffee (or cocoa). You smother them in cream or icing or chocolate. It’s a sad bloody biscuit that just sits there in its own crunch, but if crunch was all that was available to him, Crowley would just make do. He made up his mind to grumble only a little, to put his lounging abilities to good use now and then and watch the brief flashes of annoyance it caused in a certain angel.[5]

***

But then came the After. After standing side by side with the son of Satan in a desperate hope to keep a green and blue blob spinning. After hands held, faces exchanged, wearing Aziraphale’s body as his own. Nothing was the same, the distance between them worn away. And yet, nothing terribly much changed.

Still, Crowley was on cloud fucking nine most of the time. He could stare at Aziraphale all he wanted, could lounge around the bookshop to his black little heart’s content. Some nights he didn’t bother leaving, just curled up on the sofa and drifted off to the sound of the angel reading and humming.

Then came the little touches. Warm and soft and a little tentative. Hands brushed shoulders, knees, crept across a pink cheek. They hadn’t got around to kissing. And Crowley really didn’t care if they ever did. Sex had never been much to write home about, and he’d take holding hands with his angel over that any day.[6]

The jealousy was new, though. Or at least newly obvious. As Crowley hung around the bookshop more often, the covetous stares that used to follow him elsewhere began to follow him there too. An older gentleman who slipped Crowley his card with a wink was rather lucky Aziraphale didn’t have that flaming sword lying around anymore. It was like electric up Crowley’s spine, and an experiment was in order.

He brought out his arsenal of tried-and-true seduction techniques: Lounging Seductively Against Walls, Draping Strategically Over Furniture, Overly Enjoying Ice Cream. And it was bringing in some results.

“She was clearly flirting with you.”

Aziraphale was doing something that may have been reorganising books but looked an awful lot like banging things.

“Don’t be stupid, that wasn’t flirting.”

He wasn’t even listening.

“Not that _that’s_ anything new. ‘That Crowley, sex on a stick he is,’ the number of times I’ve been subjected to that _ludicrous_ phrase! And you just encourage them with- with all your- _bloody wiles_!” 

Bang went another stack of books. Aziraphale’s sleeves were rolled up ever so slightly and the flex of his wrists was making Crowley feel a bit funny.

“Sex on a stick?!”

“That’s what they say! What an idiom!”

“What is it with humans and sticks? Can you have sex on a stick? Sticky sex? Ugh, well. Obviously.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know my dear.” Well, that voice had a distinct chill.

“Oh, come on angel, a treat like you. I’m sure there’ve been plenty of…sticky…things.” Crowley was aware this was a dreadful way of approaching the subject after so many years. It was not stopping him.

“Not all of us are given to casual trysts,” Aziraphale sniffed.

“Formal trysts then? Would have to be, with a word like ‘tryst.’’

“Don’t give me that Crowley, you wrote enough poetry about trysts and ‘star crossed lovers’ back in the day!”

“I was drunk and lost a bet with Shakespeare, the tosser.”

***

Another couple might have realised they were due a discussion about their feelings. This, however, was Aziraphale and Crowley, who coped with the argument as they had with similar ones for six thousand years. Namely, by getting extremely drunk.

“Is sex always sticky?” Aziraphale’s brow was furrowed; he was slurring slightly and kept repeating the word ‘sticky’.

Crowley was trying to remember.

“Mmmm. S’pose it is. Ssssticky’s not that bad. ‘S the fuckin’ pointy bits.”

“Pointy bits?”

“Pointy bits! ‘S like- hard biscuits with no chocolate. Fuckin’- fuckin’ sssmores without marshmallows!”

“I like smores.” The furrow was growing.

“See, I'm a bissscuit. Like-like, a crunchy, kinda burnt one. But you! - You’re a marshmallow. Like, a chocolatey covered marshmallow except an angel.”

Aziraphale lit up.

“But that’s perfect! We- t-together we make a smore!”

Crowley kissed him.

***

It turned out that kissing Aziraphale was the most deeply arousing thing Crowley had ever experienced. He wanted to climb out of his own skin, wanted to kneel at his angel’s feet and beg. It also turned out that you could actually only kiss for so long before cramp set in and you couldn’t feel your lips anymore.

Aziraphale pushed him back.

“I want to know about the pointy bits. And the sticky bits. I want to know everything.”

Crowley poured them some more wine and told him. Aziraphale nodded and hummed and asked questions and appeared to take unnatural delight in crying ‘You adulterer!’ when Crowley told him about having to seduce a politician’s model wife as part of a job.

“So, you aren’t very sexually attracted to people of the slender variety then?” 

“Pointy. Too much friction, angel, ‘s like tryna start a fire rubbing two sticks together.”

“Hmm. What about the more muscle-bound variety then?”

“Haven’t tried too much. Was put off after this one bloke came on to me by saying ‘I bet you’d look gorgeous on your knees.’”

Aziraphale looked appropriately outraged.

“And what did you say?!”

Crowley grinned.

“Told ‘im I only had knees on Tuesdays.”

They cackled in unison. Aziraphale was the first to stop, the little curious furrow in his brow becoming more concerned.

“They were all fools.”

Crowley shook his head.

“Nah, was just-”

“No.” Aziraphale interrupted him. “They were fools Crowley. And so have I been. To think, between my denying your loving nature-”

“Steady on now-”

“-and those people, offering you no pleasure-” He broke off, distressed.

“Hey now, hey. It’s alright, angel. We’re here now, yeah? And, well, maybe I was just never cut out for it, doesn’t matter.”

Aziraphale looked determined now.

“If you just don’t like it, that’s perfectly fine. But tell me Crowley, would you- would you want that with...with me?”

“Uhhh…”

“Crowley. Do you want to have sex with me?”

Crowley looked at him, rumpled in outdated clothes, eyes slightly glassy with drink, his cherub’s face and the dance of his pale hair in the light.

“Fuck yes.”

Aziraphale beamed.

“Then let’s do it!”

Crowley reached for his arm.

“I just- I don’t want it to be bad.”

“If it is then we’ll just try again. Or try something different.” His eyes lit up in what Crowley thought of as his Manic Magician face. “I can do research! There are so many books in the back, why, there’s a whole section!”

Somewhere in the back of Crowley’s mind was the thought that this should probably not be turning him on. The rest of him was simply basking in the ridiculous creature who wanted to have sex with him. And have picnics with him. And walk in the park and eat expensive food and argue over long-dead writers with him. He grinned and pulled Aziraphale to his unsteady feet.

“Yeah. Fuck it, let’s make smores angel.”

11Over the years Crowley developed a system of what might be referred to as mental lock boxes. What was put in the box was figuratively sealed inside a steel-walled vault and drop-kicked into the Mariana Trench. One of these boxes contained the image of an angelic face, back lit by a juvenile sun, looking on in curious surprise. It was an image extremely hazardous to a demon’s health, particularly as it tried to climb out of the Trench every few centuries and he’d have to bury it again.[return to text]

22Not a human. Not another demon - they wouldn’t have had any answers. The very thought of someone like Hastur getting up to any ‘bumping’ made any curiosity on the matter shrivel and spontaneously self-discorporate. And it wasn’t like Upstairs was taking his call.[return to text]

33Despite it being a good few millennia before it would actually be called that. It was also the height of Crowley’s erotic experience for most, if not all, of those millennia.[return to text]

44Two sins for the price of one.[return to text]

55He wasn’t going to hope it was jealousy. That way lay madness. Even more madness than watching centuries of Aziraphale’s cherubic looks being fawned over by every hack poet.[return to text]

66And if there was a voice that said it _would_ be something to write about, to shout from the rooftops about, _because_ _it was Aziraphale_, well, it could just shut it.[return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> First foray into GOmens fic, just a bit of fun :) Hope you enjoy.
> 
> (Crowley's complaints about skinny people are in jest and mostly an excuse for his pining after a soft angel)
> 
> I also have no idea how to do footnotes properly so forgive me.
> 
> Come yell at me (gently) on twitter (@AndEthereal) and tumblr (@fantasticallyobscure)


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